Travel Plans
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: Post Beach Day. Pam thinks she might go to Chicago, she thinks. JimPam


_Thanks to csinut214 for the quick beta.

* * *

Drunk on power, and she liked the feeling._

It wasn't as though she had hurt herself, though she could have caused herself pain. Before her lay a field of fire and she conquered it, tamed it in a manner that was insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but for herself and her tiny corner of the planet, she had conquered it.

And she felt fantastic.

The soles of her feet still ached, as though she had a sunburn upon them, and no amount of cold water, baking soda or aloe relieved the throbbing. Not that she was trying terribly hard to quell the ache; it was a masochistic little reminder, one that would subside with time, leaving her with only the memory.

So, Pam gave herself a pedicure, turned her toenails a deep, dark red, the sort of red that the pain felt like. The entire ritual was a pleasant experience; toe separators, emery boards, base and top coat, she had it all and took to her feet with meticulous care. It took her two hours to complete the entire ritual and once the non-chip top coat was completely dry, Pam fell back against her pillows to admire her work.

It was the first time in a long while that she had taken some time for herself, just herself. Two wasted hours, technically, pampering a part of her body that no one but herself was likely to admire, but the sojourn into vanity made the feeling of fantastic multiply by at least two.

Having a glass of obscenely expensive wine at her fingertips was an added bonus. Blues Brothers on Comedy Central was just the icing on the cake. A perfunctory-perfect Friday evening, with a pizza on the way.

It was strange, the fact that she hadn't stagnated her commentary. It was as though as soon as she began talking, the words formulated themselves before her brain had a chance to catch up and though the butterflies were all a-flutter in her stomach, she spoke her mind before she had the presence of mind to check her words. She felt liberated, like she was liberated...

And man did her feet hurt.

Shaking the second-guessing from her head, she twisted her frame so that she was on her side and watched on as Jake fell asleep on his brother's bed, the Chicago Metro racing by outside. Maybe she would go to Chicago, she had never been and she heard that they had an amazing aquari-

The doorbell rang and startled Pam from her thoughts, spurring her to grab her wallet on the bedside table, hopping from her new, king-sized bed (slipping on her slippers) to skitter out to the front door and retrieve her pizza.

Or, as it turned out, to greet a slightly-disheveled Jim Halpert... clutching her pizza. "Uh, did you take a second job?" Her attempt at humor only made the left corner of his mouth jump slightly.

Jim held the pizza out of her with one hand, his other palm laying open to request money for the delivery. Pam rolled her eyes and grabbed the box from him and he shrugged at the attempt. "He chased me up the front walk, was wondering if new Beesly had a new man but, I didn't think you'd really go for a guy who wears a wedge of cheese on his head." Pam laughed; half of the appeal of ordering from Cheese Demons was to watch the teenagers wallow in their shame to deliver the food.

Pam stepped back and swung the door open just a bit wider, inviting him inside; he stepped inside with a flourish, looking around eagerly. He'd been to her old apartment before a few times, when Roy had thrown a cookout or for one of her impromptu movie nights. This was her new place, a place that wasn't tainted by Roy's presence, a place that was all her own.

In the foyer, they both stood, she watching him and he taking in the colors and the scents and the overall experience of being enveloped in Pam. "You want some pizza?" she finally asked, breaking into the silence smoothly.

"Yeah, definitely," he responded with a smile and followed her as she shuffled off into the kitchen. "Ugh, smells like..." he sniffed the air dramatically. "Were you painting your nails?"

Pam avoided the question for a moment, seeking out two of her only four plates; placing them next to the cardboard box, Pam turned and smiled at him shyly. "Toenails."

"Wow, pedicure, you're going all out," came the gentle humor as he stepped in to open the pizza box and dole them each out a slice. "It's kind of scaring me, actually." The laugh that followed his comment was dry, but he didn't say anything else, opting instead to fill his mouth with pizza. She blinked at him, daintily nibbling at her own slice, walking over to perch at the kitchen island.

Jim waited for a moment and followed suit, pulling up a stool so that they sat shoulder to shoulder. Eating in companionable silence, they would look over at each other once in awhile and smile those soft sort of secret smiles that they always had. At one point, Pam slid off of her stool to retrieve them both a soda, but returned, saying nothing.

She was sure she had an idea of why he had stopped by; there was no pretending that she hadn't said what she had. Even if they tried, there were plenty of people at the office who would remind them. She'd opened a can of worms and while it felt cathartic and amazing and empowering, it was also intensely frightening. As she began working on her crust, Jim moved, pushing his stool back a little, drawing her attention.

"I called corporate today," he began, sliding his soda can back and forth noisily on the countertop. "And I'm interviewing for a position in New York."

A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed around it, remembering that her toenails were red and that she'd walked through fire and that this wasn't going to break her composure, not anymore. "Oh?"

Jim took a giant bite of his crust and nodded, breaking eye contact with her, "Just uh, just before your little revelation, Karen and I decided we were going to do it, that uh, we were going to do it together." The cadence and tone of his voice was soothing, she wondered if he knew that, if he was doing it on purpose.

"Oh, okay," she took a giant bite of the remainder of her crust and closed her eyes. "That's really good," she mumbled around the dough.

There was nothing to wipe his mouth with, so Jim left the smudge of pizza sauce at the corner of his lips; Pam stared at it, thinking that her shade of polish was just a few shades darker than his lips. "So you think I should go, then," he asked, without really asking. It was more of a statement with a sliver of defeat with an equal part hope bringing up the rear.

Pam twisted her middle finger in her right fist and put on the brave face that she had become so adept at forming. "I think you should do what you think is best for you." A nice, compact, simple answer. And it wasn't a lie, she just sort of hated that she knew she wasn't part of 'what was best for him.'

Shaking his head, his tired eyes begged, "Pam, I asked you if you think I should go."

The brave face wasn't part of her resolve; she didn't really have any resolve, had nothing to hold her back. Inhibitions shed back at the lake, she nearly barked. "No, no I don't think you should go."

"Okay, then," he said and shoved the last of the crust into his mouth and turning to sit properly on the stool. "Got anymore soda?" he asked when he was done chewing.

Nodding silently, she got up and shuffled to her refrigerator, leaning in, "Hey, Jim, have you ever been to Chicago?"

"No, why?"

She smiled to herself and grabbed him a can of coke, "Just asking."


End file.
